Contractors Don’t Eat Nachos

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

Old man on teleconference. His voice echoes, cell phone breaks up. Is he taking a shit right now? His voice strains now as his aged bowels push to evacuate the Metamucil he choked down this morning. When was the last time he digested a solid meal? A steak, potatoes and some broccoli? French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon? A cheeseburger, french fries and a chocolate milkshake? Could his ancient, rumbling GI tract withstand a hard punch? I long to feel the pleasure of my knuckles connecting with his old, weakened solar plexus; his diseased stomach full of prune juice and bile rupturing into his bloodstream. I long to destroy his ability to digest even the feeblest of meals. The phone muffles and I imagine he arises from his porcelain savior. Did he just wipe ass? I’m happy I can eat nachos whenever I want.

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